Monthly Archives

April 2016

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Comedy, Mind disco

How to fold a piece of paper eight times

Author & Illustration: Mark Smith

 

  • Fold the paper in half. As you do it dramatically bellow “ONE!!” to your friends and family who are eagerly watching your brave record attempt

 

  • Fold the paper in half again. This time yelling “TWO”. Make eye contact with your nan to reassure her this isn’t black magic

 

  • Fold the paper in half again. Yep, that’s right, “THREE!”

 

  • Fold the paper in half again “FOUR!!”

 

  • Fold the paper in half again “FIVE!!” Ignore your uncle leaving the room, he has seen a lot in his life and this might tip him over the edge

 

  • Now, as you’re folding the paper in half, complain of a slight tingling sensation in your left arm. Laugh it off “PROBABLY TOO MUCH WANKING” you scoff. Then, as you’re completing the fold make sure you slur the “SIX!”, maybe even dribble. If your friends and family love you they will be calling an ambulance. Of course you keep saying they’re making a fuss over nothing, but begrudgingly get in the ambulance

 

  • As everyone is sat round waiting for the neurologic results you casually get the folded piece of paper out of your pocket. “Now, where were we?” you triumphantly holler, then as everyone leans in you say “I believe we have completed 7 folds, now for the final push!!”. You have only ACTUALLY completed SIX folds, this is the genius of the whole plan, YOU DISTRACTED THE IDIOTS. With your tongue stuck out the corner of your mouth you carefully complete the final fold. In a matter of seconds you will be on the shoulders of your friends and family being carried out to the car park, your auntie screaming “HE DID IT, HE REALLY DID IT!!”, they’ll barge past the doctor with your test results outlining you faked a stroke and you should see a psychiatrist.

 

  • Well done. You are a National treasure.
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Comedy, Think Piece

The Intergalactic Naughty Corner

Author: Danny Robertson

Illustration: Mark Smith

Since time immemorial, there has been speculation, news stories, scientific research, literature of the fictional and non-fictional variety and some really bad straight-to-video movies, which all pondered and asked the question…. Are we alone in the universe? Are we, on our spinning blue and green ball of mostly water and spam mail, a biological fluke on a galactic scale, or, in some distant region, are there other planets of equally baffled races, with their own curiousness, their own need to know, their own brands of bad daytime TV?

Whilst I personally, quite reluctantly, would say that we’ll probably never truly know within our lifetimes, I would like to think that there are indeed hundreds, thousands, of other races out there, some making their first tentative steps into the unknown, others more advanced who are already boldly going, and others like us who just quite aren’t ‘there’ yet.

BUT, here’s the thing…. I’m not convinced there’d want to come down here….just yet. What if there are races out there, who are well aware that we’re here, but have decided NOT to come down for a spot of tea and a chat just yet, but have instead decided to wait another century or two (or more?) for us to stop blowing each other up, to stop shouting at each other over fences/radio waves/the internet, to maybe grow up a bit? In essence, we’re on time-out, placed in an intergalactic naughty corner at a safe distance from everyone else until we’ve decided to play nicely with the other children. It’s not bad town planning – we’re remote for a reason, still thinking about what we did.

Imagine being an observer on the other side of the stars – would you want to come down here? I personally would rather wait until a real-life Picard made themselves known. Rather him than Kirk. Shut up, Picard was better…. look see, now they’re never coming down.

That said, if they wait for us to hit ‘puberty’, so to speak, they’ll encounter an entire race of awkward folks with mood swings and strange clothes, listening to angry music that no one gets. Oh wait, has that already happened?

Imagine though, if they’ve been monitoring our ALL our satellite transmissions, film and TV included?

“Trev? Trev! I’m just going for a hover around that Earth place for a bit.”

“Fine, but cover your USB ports; you saw what happened to those other guys. Oh and get some milk.”

There could be aliens named Trev. You don’t know. I could’ve called him Flogglegargen, but that could be a terrible word in their language.

Whilst it’s safe to assume that any alien races out there watching us are already technologically superior, as far as communication and travel is concerned at least, here’s hoping they’ve progressed beyond the need for petty squabbles, one-one-upmanship and bragging rights for the biggest rocket boosters.

I bet they’d be great at Cards Against Humanity though.

 

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Comedy, Mind disco

Queen goes to quasar for her birthday

Author & Illustration: Mark Smith

It was originally feared that the Queen was laser intolerant, but it transpires she gobbles lasers like nobody’s business. In fact Prince Harry has been seen sporting a t-shirt saying “my nan really enjoys quasar. Please leave our family alone to enjoy quasar like any other family. Thank you for reading my t-shirt” which caused a massive stir in quasar plagued Hemel Hempstead. Incidentally Prince William was wearing a “I’m with stupid” t-shirt which led to Harry punching William right in the BCG, William squealed into the air like a freshly bitten pig before rubbing his arm and shouting “OH HARRY DON’T BOTHER”. They both sulked at Polo so Charles gave them £5 each and they cheered right up. It’s even believed that William spent his money on a card from Moonpig which read “Harry I like you and I won’t wear that t-shirt again”. However Harry spent his money on ANOTHER t-shirt which simply read “PRINCE WILLYCUNT”.

They haven’t spoken since.

So anyway the queen is all like “I AM NINETY YEARS OLD AND I AM GOING TO SHOOT A LASER GUN” so Prince Philip turns into the BFG and the queen rides him like she’s little Sophie catching dreams. Eventually they arrive at quasar and the queen releases her vice like grip from Philips ears and springs straight into a laser suit, she smashes it, gets her “Top gun” slip then mounts Philip for the long ride home

“Elizabeth?” Said Philip

“Yes?” Replied the queen

“You were really good back there”

“That’s really kind. Thank you Philip”

“Maybe I could sleep in the house tonight?”

“No chance”

“But…”

“That’s enough now, Philip, that’s enough”

Philip skulked back into the shadows and the queen ironed her Prince Willycunt t-shirt before bed.

It was the most fabulous birthday.

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Comedy, Think Piece

Global Warming and the Arctic Pub toilet

 

Author: Hannah Smith

Illustration: Christopher Harrisson

You’re halfway through your second pint and a feeling has been gathering for a while, you know that you don’t have long left before you are going to have to just break that blasted seal. Once you’ve popped…you can’t stop. Oh please, no I didn’t just fart.

This is problematic for a couple of reasons, one, the obvious, this is a stream that will just keep coming, a tap that is constantly turning, an inconvenient interruption every time your friend gets to the punch line of their story. It is a constant interruption to an otherwise pleasant evening. Two, and this is far more disturbing, you know that no matter what pub you are in, no matter what part of London this is, from your trusted local to the brand new pub you’ve just stepped inside, this is the first wee of many where you will be forced to risk your genitals actually freezing over. And you’re going to have to do that a million times in the course of the evening.

You open the door to the toilet and an arctic wind hits you, in the corner of your eye you think you saw a Polar bear but it’s hard to tell, your face is whipped and tingling with cold, your eyes have started to water from the pain of the cold, dry air. Your fingers lose all feeling as you fumble with first the lock, and then your clothes. Bracing yourself as the cold wind hits the area and almost tears off a layer of flesh. The pee when it comes is steaming at first but turns to icicles as soon as it hits the air. Your vajayjay could actually freeze over and now the eye contact you made with the hot guy on the way to the toilet feels hopeless. “Yes, I will go home with you but we’re going to need a pick axe.”

You John Wayne it out of the toilets because your entire nether regions have now frozen over, having barely shown your hands at the freezing cold water you tried to clean them under. Shivering as you attempted to clean your hands and fix your make up. The arctic sea ice might be melting but go to any pub in London and you’ll find a new one developing in the toilet bowls.

You seriously consider saying no to a third pint but then, it’s Friday (read every day of the week), you’ve earned this. If a frozen vagina is the price you pay, well, it’s the price you pay.

Look, pubs, we know that heating your old Victorian / Edwardian building is expensive, we know you’re slowly turning into crèches and restaurants and flats, we know you have your struggles, we get it, we sympathise but please would you stop taking it out on my reproductive organs?

I’ve worked in pubs and I know that managers and owners are very concerned with making the toilets look like old Victorian lounges, a sofa here, an ornamental soap dispenser there that will run out within an hour of being filled, paper towels and a small antique bin to put them in, the kind that is full after one empty toilet roll holder, toilet roll holders that will beautifully carry one bloody roll for an evening’s worth of drinkers to share, cling onto, fight for. They want everything to look good. Great, brilliant, I will step over the over-flowing paper towels, I will get my anti-bacterial out when the soap is empty, again, I will drip dry…except, no, I won’t because the drips turn to ice and now I’ve got a sheet of ice covering what used to be my vagina.

The brave of you might even take the time to look for a radiator, you won’t find one, or if you do, you will touch it and not only will it be turned off, it will be so cold that your hand will stick to it until a family of penguins take pity on you and peck you free. Crying with relief, you look up at the skylight to catch the Northern lights dancing above the OPEN bloody window that no one can reach. There hasn’t been a star seen in London since sometime in the 80’s but over every pub toilet in the Capital dance the Aurora Borealis seven nights a week, twelve months of the year.

I’m not sure when global warming first started to affect the London ladies toilets but I do know we have to do something to halt it. We have to stand up and say we want to do our million-in-a-row-wees of a Friday night in warmth, without threatening our ability to reproduce, without crying tears of frozen pain every time we pull down our knickers, we want to be able to wash our hands without chattering teeth, we want to enter the toilet and exit it without our body temperature plummeting to damaging degrees, we want to know that we won’t be found frozen to the toilet seat, dead from hypothermia at the end of the night as the pub is locked up, we want to know why in 2016 the only room in your Victorian / Edwardian building without central heating is the dunny? We want to stop this before the worrying trend of the restaurant with the arctic toilets starts to creep from the odd one, to all of them.

Please, someone, please help.

And she exits, pursued by a bloody Polar bear…

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Poem

The Literature Anteater

Author: Nesbit & Gibley

Illustration: teapotsforelephants

“The bulb has gone in the attic,” he said.
I imagined him sifting through old boxes
For old notes, for old books,
And suddenly being wrapped in cloudy, cold black.
He feels around him, finds his way back
To the ladder
And calls me.

He was a literature anteater. Poor vision, scrappy and quiet,
But with his bookworm tongue, he was able to find the smallest things
In rhymes and prose
That meant the most.
He could roll a quote from any author, from any poet, any philosopher
For any moment, for any person.
The smartest man I ever knew.

When he told me there was no light in the top of the house
I misunderstood.
I was half way out the door to leave for the hardware store
When he stopped me. He spoke slowly, softly, and then repeated himself.
I knew this was now not an errand request but instead, his best, poetic way
Of telling me that things weren’t all okay.
Darkness shrouded membrane.
Termites under milk wood.
He insisted there was nothing I could do
Yet told me not to worry – “There’s no prescription but there’s no pain.”

Henry Oak donated his books, his medievals, his reading light
To the local charity in the silence of midnight.
He left them outside in strong, plastic boxes so that in the morning,
Someone else could have the joy of reading them.

Better that than them collecting dust.
No wood for the burner, no cure for the rust.

The anteater has stopped eating.
The bulb has gone in the attic.

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Comedy, Mind disco

Octopuses aren’t actually clever

Author & Illustration: Mark Smith

We all know the story; The octopus waits until the dead of night and escapes his tank, he tiptoes down the corridor, karate chops the security guard, steals all of his clothes and his identity, lives for three years with the security guards family before one year suggesting a holiday to the Caribbean where they go on a deep sea fishing trip and he slips over the side and cracks himself up laughing all the way to the sea bed whilst his adopted family desperately search for him. He tells all the other octopuses ( no it is NOT octopi ) how stupid humans are and they slap their weird beaks together before watching Countryfile on a TV they made out of Mermaid scales and bubbles. One of the octopuses suggests Matt Baker lacks charisma and he’s shunned from the group and turns into a stupid squid.

Then they walk straight into a bright orange fishing net because it turns out they’re not that clever.

Repeat process.

Remember when everyone went batshit because an octopus was predicting football results? Paul the psychic octopus. IMPRISONED IN A FISH TANK. Maybe he can only use his skills for football results? Which is the worst gift ever, even worse than that 20 pack of blank cassettes your nan got you at Christmas. Just me? Right. THANKS NAN. Unless it’s like back to the future 2 and the octopus is going to predict loads of sports results and write them down in a book and then pass it on to his idiot octopus grandson called Biff who will end up becoming rich. If that happens I will concede that octopuses are pretty clever. But until then I will assume they are not psychic, and only clever compared to the Golden retriever of the sea World; Penguins. At least penguins know what they are, octopuses lord it about like they OWN the place. We all know Whales own the sea because they’re fucking MASSIVE.

Maybe I’m bitter. I bet on the football every week and lose.

Oh and an octopus stole my dad’s identity for three years.